


Slow Burn

by greyeyedglances



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 01:07:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6778825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyeyedglances/pseuds/greyeyedglances
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set 5 years after Franky's release from Wentworth.  She is an up and coming barrister who performs pro-bono work for some of the inmates at Wentworth.</p><p>Bridget has just moved back to Melbourne from Sydney and has recently been appointed as Wentworth's Forensic Psychologist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Slow Burn/Pyre

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at fanfic. Hoping to make this a multi-chapter story. Franky and Bridget are meeting for the first time after Franky's release from Wentworth so there is a significant amount of backstory. In other words, sex comes later.

FanFic  
Slow Burn/Fridget

Set 5 years after Franky’s release from Wentworth. She is an up and coming barrister representing some of the women at Wentworth Prison, Boomer being one of them.  
Bridget has just moved back to Melbourne from Sydney where she worked at Silverwater Correctional Centre, a high security prison and has since been appointed as Forensic Psychologist at Wentworth Prison.

Pyre  
Franky Doyle was sitting on her Harley Davidson in the parking lot of Wentworth Prison, intently checking the messages on her iPhone for anything of urgency. She didn’t look like what could be described as your stereotypical barrister. Dressed in tight black jeans, a black fitted t-shirt, black sunglasses, and black boots, the woman looked more like a figure out of a music video than someone who does pro- bono work with some of the inmates at Wentworth. Her choice of dress was calculated today, she was after all, going to prison and she, as well as any of the inmates knew, that prisoners don’t respond well to people who look like Screws. Standing, bike between her legs, she stretches her arms over her head and arches her back. As much as she loves riding, a good stretch now and again is required to maintain a certain level of comfort. She grabs the black half-shell helmet that was sitting between her legs and pulls one leg over the bike seat as she stands to find her footing. Black sunglasses atop her head, Franky mounts her helmet to the back of her bike, steps to the left and opens her black leather saddle bag.  
Bridget Westfall, Wentworth’s new Forensic Psychologist maneuvers her BMW M4 sports coupe down the long driveway leading to the prison entrance. Although the posted speed limit is 40km, she is easily driving 64km and almost has to slam on brakes when approaching the many speed bumps that are placed along the driveway. She is in no hurry really, she still has 20 minutes before she needs to be in her office, but like many things pertaining to Bridget Westfall, even her driving is contradictory to her appearance. As she finally enters the parking lot she speeds past a dark figure bent over what can only be described as, “a bad-ass bike.” Driving past an empty parking space, she hits the brakes of her sports coupe hard, slams the gear shift into reverse and quickly backs up the car, stopping at the open parking spot, she again hits the brakes hard and this time they screech against the concrete before she parks her car, nose first into the space. The sound of squealing car wheels gets Franky’s attention as she absently looks up from rummaging through her saddle bag for her briefcase. “What a twat,” she thinks to herself as she resumes gathering her things.  
Bridget sits in her car and leafs through her bag looking for her small cosmetics bag. Finding her lipstick and mascara, she looks in the rearview mirror and applies the make-up to her lips and steely blue eyes. She has perfected the balance of wearing make-up without looking as though she’s wearing make-up, just enough to accent certain features but not at the expense of overshadowing their natural beauty. Content with her appearance, Bridget stuffs her cosmetics back into her bag and emerges holding a small bottle of Prada perfume. Spraying a small amount of perfume on her wrists and the arc of her neck, Bridget feels ready to start her work day. Gathering her bag and tablet, she steps out of her car and swaggers across the parking lot. As she approaches a tall, slim figure standing in the near distance, she once again notices the Harley Davidson and can’t resist the temptation to go have a closer look. Having a clear interest in bikes, as she herself used to ride and her brother owning one of the most exclusive custom shops in Melbourne, she walks over to the bike and what she has just become acutely aware of, it’s beautiful owner, “Nice bike! Harley SuperLow, shorty exhaust with dual mufflers, 3750 rpm exhaust torque, Evolution engine, she’s a real beaut.”  
Franky, standing there holding her brief case, mouth slightly open in awe, takes a step back, eyeballs the conservative looking petite blonde up and down and says through smiling lips, “Are you for fucking real?” and giggles a mischievous giggle.  
Bridget smiles, inquisitively, squinting her eyes and tilting her head slightly as she extends her hand, “I’m Bridget Westfall, nice to meet you.”  
Franky reciprocates the gesture and is stunned by the strength in the small hand that is squeezing hers. “Franky Doyle. Wouldn’t have pegged you for a biker,” as she releases her grip.  
“ …..and why would that be?”  
“Well look at ya, seem more like the BMW type,” and with a shit eating smirk on her face, nods her head towards Bridget’s pristinely polished black car.  
Bridget giggles, shakes her head and realizes that she is enjoying the banter with this Franky Doyle. “Well, I’ll have you know I used to ride all the time, matter of fact, I just recently moved back into the area and was thinking about picking it up again.”  
“You used to ride did ya, what’s that a Honda Rebel 250?” laughing she looks the woman straight in the eye and with that, Franky became fully aware of the beauty of the woman standing in front of her. Blonde hair, pulled up tightly in the back, loose strands falling around the sides of her face and inside Franky couldn’t help but think, “Where the hell did you come from?”  
“I said I liked BIKES, not scooters.”  
Franky found herself laughing at the retort, shifting from one foot to the other, thinking to herself, “Beautiful, smart, funny, and quick. Very nice combination indeed.”  
For a moment there was a silence that hung in the air between the two women. Looking straight at each other, smiling, it occurred to both women that although there was a period of silence, there was no discomfort in it, quite the contrary, it felt like two people making a connection.  
“Well, Franky Doyle, I have to be running, don’t want to be late for work,” and with that  
Bridget put a hand on her belly and made a downward motion on her jacket, as if wiping an invisible crumb. “I’ll see ya ‘round,” and she turned to walk toward the entrance gates of Wentworth Prison.  
“If you’re lucky,” Franky shot back.  
Bridget stopped, smiled, and turned slightly to see the dark haired beauty standing there smiling, her tongue resting on her bottom lip and giggling an impish giggle that Bridget found delightful.  
One last shake of the head and Bridget continued her ascent up the slight incline that led to the gates of Wentworth.  
Standing in the parking lot, Franky watched Bridget as she strutted toward the gates and she found that she was grinning like a school girl at the sight of the tiny woman walking with such confidence, regal in the way she carried herself and she heard herself say, “For fuck’s sake, who is that woman?”


	2. Slow Burn/Pyre 2

“Booms, how many times do we have to go over this. You have to start participating in some of these new programs that Governor Bennett has started. I’m doing all I can to help get time shaved off of your sentence but I need you to help yourself.”  
“Franky, you’ve been out too long to remember what it’s like in here. The Screws don’t give a shit about us, they only want to get ahead themselves and they use us to do it. The Governor has us doing arts and fuckin’ crafts with some tree huggin’ lezzie. Arts and fuckin’ crafts Franky!”  
From across a wooden table Franky looks at her old friend and smiles. She loves Boomer dearly and although they’ve had their difficulties in the past, both recognize that they have a shared history that few others will ever experience. She also knows that if she were still an inmate at Wentworth, she’d be telling that tree hugging lesbo to stick her arts and crafts up her arse, but today she isn’t here as Boomer’s friend, today she is here as Boomer’s legal counsel and with that realization she presses her client further.  
“Booms, come on, is it really that bad? Gives ya something to do for a little bit, get ya out of the block for a while, yeah?”  
Boomer looks down at her hands and keeping her head hung, raises her eyes to meet Franky’s, “I reckon I like making dragonflies alright.”  
“Thanks Booms, maybe you could make me a dragonfly.”  
“Alright Franky, but I ain’t going to see that new counselor, you can forget about that. She walks around here all hoity toity lookin’ and tries to talk to us like she knows something. I ain’t going to her stupid fuckin’ group sessions.”  
Franky sat back in the heavy plastic chair thinking back to the woman she met in the parking lot. At the thought of Bridget Westfall being a new counselor at Wentworth, Franky couldn’t help but admit to herself that were she still an inmate, she would be the first to sign up for individual sessions.   
The beeping sound of the conference room door opening snapped Franky back to attention. Officer Miles poked her head through the door and with little expression on either her face or in her voice she flatly stated, “Five minutes,” before closing the door again.  
“Alright Booms, we’ll talk about counseling next week when I come to see ya, okay? In the meanwhile at least go to the art classes. I want you outta here.”   
Franky pushed her chair away from the table and walked over to the door. As much as she hated Wentworth Prison, it still hurt her to leave her friends behind. She banged hard on the door allowing herself a moment to gather her composure before turning to look at Boomer.   
“C’mon, give me a hug.”  
The large figure loomed over Franky for a second before putting her arms around her and picking her up off the floor in a bear hug.   
Officer Miles stood in the door way, “Put her down Jenkins.”  
Boomer gently placed Franky back on her feet and walked over to Miles, “Next week yeah?”  
“Next week Booms, promise.”   
Officer Miles directed Franky to stay put until someone came to escort her out of the prison and closed the door behind her as she and Boomer made their way down the hall.   
Franky walked over to the chair and sat down. For a moment she just sat there motionless, taking in the dank, musty smell of the room. She looked over at the heavy metal door, her eyes scanning over the indentations where too many chairs had been thrust upon it, desperate attempts by too many women who needed to release their anger, despair, frustration. She wondered how many women were given life shattering news in this very room, sitting across this very table? A visit from a chaplain to deliver news of a loved one’s death. The visit of a legal aide explaining why another appeal had been denied. This room was full of ghosts and demons and darkness. This room was a mausoleum where hope was laid to rest and for a brief moment, Franky allowed herself to mourn those losses.  
Franky was so lost in thought that she didn’t hear the door open. It wasn’t until a grainy male voice asked, “You ready Doyle?” that she realized she wasn’t alone.   
“Yeah, let me just throw this shit in my case,” and she proceeded to stack her folders on top of each other before putting them in her brief case.   
Franky slowly walked side by side with Officer Fletcher as he escorted her down the corridor that led to Wentworth’s main yard. Clumsily swiping his key card, he held the door open as Franky stepped outside. In the distance she could see two women talking. She immediately recognized one of them as Governor Vera Bennett and the other woman was unmistakably the beautiful woman she has recently come to know as Bridget Westfall.   
Walking along the fenced aisle that curved around Wentworth’s recreation yard, Franky found herself quickening her pace as she drew closer to the spot where Vera and Bridget were standing. Officer Fletcher tried hard to meet Franky’s stride but she was too fast and too focused on Bridget to notice that he had fallen behind.   
“Well, hello Governor Bennett. Aren’t you looking rather smart today?”  
Bridget immediately honed in on Franky’s voice and noted how her eyes sparkled when she was being a wise ass. She thoroughly enjoyed trying to get a rise out of people and Bridget found it so compelling that she consciously had to control her facial expressions.  
Governor Bennett rolled her eyes at Franky’s backhanded compliment and with a slight smirk on her face replied, “Hello Doyle. I look the way you’ve always known me to look. I’d say that of the two of us, you’re the one who looks rather different.”   
Feeling a bit of self-satisfaction, Vera raises her eyebrows and smiles a wide grin at Franky.   
Completely unaffected by Vera’s remarks and with that same sarcastic tone, “Well, I think you look absolutely dashing,” and turning to Bridget, “Don’t ya think?”   
Not the least bit surprised at Franky’s maneuver, Bridget stood there, squinty-eyed and smiling and subtly shook her head. She couldn’t help but wonder how many women were tripping over themselves to get to Franky Doyle and if she were to be honest with herself, she would have to admit that there had been a time when she would have been amongst those women.   
“Franky, this is Bridget Westfall. The Board has recently appointed her as Wentworth’s Forensic Psychologist.”  
Extending her hand as if they were meeting for the first time, Franky looks at Bridget with a mocking grin, “Psychologist? I have a lot of issues, would you be willing to spend some time helping me to work through them?”  
Bridget tilts her head and although her face doesn’t betray her, Franky notices that her eyes are smiling as she responds, “And what issues would those be?”  
Franky laughs as she looks at Governor Bennett, “I reckon you’ll find that out soon enough,” and glancing back at Bridget gives a little wink.  
Bridget observes that the dynamic between Franky and Vera is somewhat unsettling. Beneath the seemingly playful exchanges between the two women, she senses a subtle tension lying just beneath the surface.   
“Vera, Gidget, it’s been fun catching up but I’ve other shit to do. Would someone mind opening this gate and letting me out of this shithouse?”  
Officer Fletcher steps forward from behind the women and limps over to the main gate leading out of Wentworth. He swipes his key card and after a seconds delay, opens the gate for Franky. As she steps across the threshold she turns and looks at Bridget.  
“See ya ‘round soon Gidget.”  
Through a smile Bridget corrects her, “Bridget!”  
“Oh, right. Bridget. See ya ‘round soon Gidget,” laughing, she bites her bottom lip and walks away.  
As Bridget watches Franky disappear down the slope leading to the parking lot, she thinks to herself, “God, not too soon I hope.”  
“Bridget, do you care to walk back to my office with me and I’ll get you that paperwork you need?”   
Almost forgetting that Vera was standing next to her, the sound of the Governor’s voice is almost startling to Bridget. Not entirely sure what questioned was just asked of her, she looks at Vera and with a feigned smile says, “Of course.”   
The two women walk silently along the fenced corridor for a moment. Bridget, ever so quick to process information, replays the exchange between Franky and Vera. There is something between them, unspoken but faintly palpable.   
“So, about Franky Doyle, you never quite told me what her business is here at Wentworth. You seem rather familiar with one another.”  
“She’s a barrister. She provides legal counsel to some of the women. Helps with appeals and such.”  
The hurried way in which Vera made that last comment confirmed Bridget’s suspicions that there was more to her acquaintanceship with Franky than merely that of Governor and legal counsel. Through innate ability and expert training, Bridget has become masterful at hearing what people aren’t saying. Like a laser with pin point accuracy, she senses the unconscious nuances that unfold during social exchanges and since their first introduction, Vera Bennett has proven to be an easy read.  
Approvingly, Bridget commends Vera for her interest in the women, “It’s very admirable that you’ve taken the time to become acquainted with the women’s support network. Not many people in your position can say the same.”  
Governor Bennett felt a rush of warmth flow through her body and had to suppress a smile at the compliment. “Thank you Bridget, I do try to make Wentworth a better place for the women than it used to be. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories of our former Governor. I have worked very hard to change the image of this prison.”  
“Well, clearly by your interaction with Franky I can see that you have gone out of your way to ensure familiarity with those who are in the women’s lives. It is very nice to see.”   
“Well, as far as Franky’s concerned, I’m certain you know that she is a different story entirely.”  
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”  
Stopping outside of the door that leads into the hallway of Wentworth, Vera Bennett moves half a step closer to Bridget and with raised eyebrows asks, “Are you truly unfamiliar with who Franky Doyle is? You haven’t heard the others speak of her?”  
Although surprised by the Governor’s question, she simply shook her and responded, “No, what do you mean?”  
Sensing that Bridget was being honest in her reply, Vera merely offered, “Franky used to be Top Dog.”  
Letting a little chuckle slip from between her lips, “Top Dog of what exactly?”  
Swiping her key card and pulling open the door, Vera amusedly looks at Bridget and before stepping into the corridor states, “Wentworth.”  
For a brief second Bridget thought she misunderstood what Vera said. Looking at the Governor standing there holding the door open, three words found their way into Bridget Westfall’s consciousness: “Franky. Doyle. Inmate.”  
Bridget stood stoically. Looking at Governor Bennett, she placed the palm of her hand on her stomach and moved it downward, swiping at that invisible crumb before stepping through the doorway.


	3. Slow Burn/Fridget 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bridget spends a night home, decompressing.

Slow Burn/Fridget 3

Bridget lies on her cream colored leather sofa, arms stretched over her head, legs crossed at the ankle, eyes closed. Although the television is on in the background she has the volume set to mute and only occasionally opens her eyes to see what show is playing. It”s Friday evening and although she had been invited out to drinks with friends, she declined the invitation, opting for a quiet night at home with a bottle of wine. Wearing only a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a green cami top, she is comfortable and content in her solitude. The last few weeks had been exciting, exhilarating and overwhelming. Her new position at Wentworth had proven to be both refreshing and confounding in its challenge and she was pleased at having made the decision to accept the position when it was offered to her. Of course she couldn’t deny the compulsion she felt toward Franky Doyle. In the days following the revelation about Franky being a former inmate at Wentworth, it was all Bridget could do not to look up her file and learn more about the woman whose playful persona seemed the antithesis of the reputation that proceeded her. After all, Bridget truly believed that people could change even in the face of the most tragic adversity. She wouldn’t be in the profession she”s in if she believed otherwise and the fact that Franky Doyle moved beyond a history that should have otherwise mapped out the rest of her life, was testament to someone’s ability to transform themselves.   
“Bridget, get your head out of there, enough about Franky Doyle….,” she smiled to herself in frustration and shook her head.   
Sitting up slightly, she leaned over the coffee table and reached for her second glass of wine. She sipped on the sweet red and felt its warmth travel through her bloodstream. She lay back down and her body sank into the plush cushions of the sofa. She sensed a subtle urge growing inside of her, slowly bubbling beneath her skin and became aware that her right hand was lying across her left breast and to her surprise, she could feel her hardened nipple through the fabric of her shirt. With her left arm stretched over the back of the sofa, she encircled her nipple with her right index finger and bringing her thumb up, pinched the hardened bud just enough to heighten the sensation. With her legs crossed at the ankle, she could feel the swelling of her clit as it pressed against the seam of her cut-off jean shorts. Slightly lifting and lowering her hips to cause a warm friction between her shorts and her pussy, Bridget slides her hand under her shirt and with more deliberation, pinches her nipple a little tighter. Releasing a low, breathy moan, she knows that she has moved beyond the point of cessation. She slowly removes her hand from under her shirt and lets her fingers travel across her belly, over the zipper of her shorts, and find their way to the seam that is covering her clit. She rubs her hand slowly, exerting just enough pressure to increase her arousal. She can feel the warmth of her juices between her legs and she can no longer resist the urge to feel that wetness on her fingers. Lifting her hips, she slides her shorts off of her small body and tosses them at the foot of the couch. Lying back, legs splayed open, the coolness of the room air meshes with the heat rising from between her legs and the contrast sends goosebumps along her body.   
Bridget moves her hand along the inside of her right thigh until it meets the crease that connects her thigh bone to her pubic bone. Placing the palm of her hand over her pussy, she slowly rubs up and down, feeling her warmth, her wetness, the small patch of neatly groomed hair. Much like she does in every other part of her life, she takes in all the senses and adjusts herself accordingly. Sliding her middle finger from the bottom of her pussy opening, upward, Bridget opens herself, gathers her juices, and rubs her clit until it is fully engorged and erect. Taking her middle finger, she buries it deep inside of herself and with slow, circular motions, she gently loosens her inner walls. Bringing her other hand down from over her head, she finds her nipple and squeezes it hard, all the while quickening the pace in which she is fucking herself. With every thrust of her finger, the fleshy part of her palm slams into her clit, sending shockwaves through her body. Breathing heavily and moaning, Bridget can feel her insides begin to tighten around her finger, her hips are moving in synch with her thrusts and as she arches her back and braces herself for the impending explosion, she envisions a beautiful, dark-haired woman laying on top of her, fingers inside of her, grey-eyes looking into her own blue eyes, and as she cums with earth shaking violence, she hears the woman say, “Give it to me Gidget.”   
Bridget just lay there, clad in only a shirt, knee bent up, left hand covering her eyes and all she could think was, “Fucking hell….”


End file.
